The handwriting was a perfect imitation of mine.

I turned the page.

There was a medical report detailing Megan’s unstable mental state and history of substance abuse.

It was all fabricated.

Every single word.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

The light in the hallway suddenly went out.

I turned around, my heart stopping as a shadow fell across the nursery door.

I froze, clutching the manila folder against my chest.

The shadow in the doorway elongated, stretching across the yellow carpet.

My hand slid into my pocket, fingers closing around the heavy brass key ring from the hardware store.

“You shouldn’t be here, Jake,” a voice said.

It was a dry, familiar voice that sounded like paper rubbing together.

A man stepped into the faint yellow light of the nursery.

It was Arthur Vance, my mother’s attorney.

He wore a tailored gray overcoat, his silver hair combed back perfectly.

He looked at the folder in my hands, then at the wooden crib.

“Put those back,” Vance said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.

“She forged my name,” I said, my voice shaking. “She forged Megan’s name.”